


Bellum Et Pax

by NerdyAdjacent



Series: Dark Days [7]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, Eventual Torture, F/M, Female/male sex, Gladiatorial combat, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Male/Male sex, Multi, None actually shown, Oral Sex, Prison, Sex, Slight Dean/stephanie, Tiny bit of evil!seth, ambrollins - Freeform, sensitive themes throughout, this has been stuck in my head for ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6963442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyAdjacent/pseuds/NerdyAdjacent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life wasn't his anymore, hadn't been for years. They took that from him a long time ago, just like they did his name. They took it and gave him a new name, one they could control and manipulate.</p><p>Ambrose they called him now.</p><p>Dean Ambrose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> This has been stuck in my head for AGES! I really wanted to write it a while ago, but I had so many multi-chapter projects going I had to wait until I finished at least one. 
> 
> Kudos and comments welcomed.
> 
> Enjoy

He had a real name once.

He remembered it sometimes when he sat quietly in his cell at night, trying so desperately to hold onto that piece of himself that was his and his alone.

Good they called him, Jonathan Good.

But that was then. That was back when his name mattered; back when his name was his own to give; back before the fights and the blood. Ever since the Authority devised this plan of theirs, taking cues from ancient arenas from times long since forgotten.

 _Gladiatorial Combat_ is what they called it, the name chosen for obvious reasons. A modern day spectacle of carnage and death because _“that's what the people crave!”_ Or at least, that's what Vince McMahon said. He was the creator of this showcase of death, and it was popular. So popular in fact, rules and regulations couldn't touch him.

It was a free for all of legal mayhem and murder.

The populace loved it because it got rid of the antiquated prison systems that seemed to plague the country for so long. Now you get caught breaking the law, no matter how slight the crime, you were sent to the Arena for a prescribed amount of time. You survive and you're free to go, held up a hero of the masses.

You lost? Well, losing wasn't the best option. If you survived the fight, depending on your state of injury, they'd make a half hearted attempt at patching you up (if they deemed your skill in the Arena worth it). If you were too far gone, they'd leave you on the slab to bleed out. Even then some survived, to which they would just kill you anyway and be done with it. The shallow grave they gave you was probably the only exit from this hell hole.

Because no one has survived through their sentence.

No one.

No one had even come close.

They took everything from you before making you an “immortal”, Vince's name for his fighters. Your very identity belonged to them. His life wasn't his anymore, hadn't been for years. They took that from him a long time ago, just like they did his name. They took it and gave him a new name, one they could control and manipulate.

Ambrose they called him now.

Dean Ambrose. 


	2. Gamemaker's Daughter

“Ambrose!”

His name was called over the crowd of the mess hall frenzy that was any meal time in the Arena prisons. He'd just gotten an early place line for food, something that wasn't exactly easy to do. Despite the fact that they were supposed to be given even rations, the guards tended to give more food to those who got there quickest. Generally, it was a literal fight for position and he was currently nursing a split lip after getting punched in the face. But he'd won his position and had no intention of giving it up. Especially not for some nameless idiot guard who had the audacity to call him during meal time.

“AMBROSE!” His name was called again, louder this time. “Over here, _NOW_!”

“You heard the man, Ambrose.” The man behind him sneered, pushing at his shoulder to get him going.

Dean turned around to look at him with a warning in his eyes, hands clenched around the tray he seriously considered breaking over his head. But, he didn't need a night in the hole, so he settled on a warning. “Touch me again, Owens, and you'll wish you'd never been born.”

“Too late for that.” He laughed and physically pushed Ambrose out of line, claiming his spot. “Now move!”

“Fuck!” He grumbled to himself. Now he'd have almost nothing to eat until tomorrow. He'd get Owens back for this, he'd make sure he did. How that man managed to stay hefty with so little food around boggled his mind. Oh wait, he knew why. Owens intimidated anyone he could for their portion. Son of a bitch.

The guard stood waiting with one hand on his hip and the other holding the cattle prod he'd use without hesitation if Dean got out of line. He'd been hit with those things before. The terms ‘unruly’ and ‘troublemaker’ were usually thrown around when someone was talking about Dean Ambrose, but that just meant he was unpredictable.

A distinct advantage.

“This better be fucking good.” He said to the guard, not even attempting to hide the incredulous edge to his voice.

The guard tried not to look fazed, but Dean could see the way his grip tightened on the cattle prod and the distinct widening of what he could see of his eyes behind the heavy black armor. “You're summoned.”

“She couldn't have waited until _after_ I ate something?” Was the huffed reply.

The guard smirked and stepped aside for Dean to exit the mess hall first. “She said now or the pit for a week.”

It was an empty threat, he knew that, but rather than risk her wrath in any capacity, he did as instructed with an annoyed shake of his head. “Fine.”

He knew the way. This wasn't his first rodeo with her - which was a surprisingly accurate comparison because she was about to ride him like a three dollar pony. He really had little choice in the matter, but he supposed that was just the game makers privilege. Being an Immortal sounded big and fancy, but when it boiled down they were little more than slaves, pawns to be used and toyed with, traded and discarded, bought and sold as their owners saw fit until their sentence was up...provided they made it that far.

However, as far as how bad it could get, this wasn't the worst thing they could do to him. Lots of prisoners here were sold for sex and expected to perform. Having sex with a paying customer who saw them - foolishly - as gods was degrading, sure, but at least it wasn't the Pit. Little more than televised torture, it was the worst punishment someone could get. The public paid an extra fee to have access to those cameras and could even dictate what was done to the poor asshole strung up there through a secure internet connection. He supposed that if part of this business was providing a fantasy to the public, that certainly fulfilled someone's sick idea of a good time.

Technically, he wasn't headed to a paying customer because you don't have to pay if you already own the property, right? Stephanie McMahon called for him at least three times a week, so there was something about him she liked. She had said he had a cocky swagger she found sexy. He didn't see it. But being the boss's plaything had its advantages, and any advantage in here was worth it's weight in gold. So he did his best, making her scream the name her father had given him almost a year ago while her husband either didn't know or didn't care what she was up to.

Having her ear had saved his ass several times, and if giving her a screaming orgasm is what it took to survive, he'd do it with a smile on his face. After all, Dean Ambrose was nothing if not a survivor.

“Took you long enough.” She said when the guard damn near shoved him into her room and closed the door behind him. Dean knew that he'd be right outside, making sure nothing happened that shouldn't. “I've been waiting for you for _twenty minutes_!”

The rooms where these visits took place was little more than a cell made to look fancy. Sure, there was a bed that even had sheets, unlike their own cells and the lumpy cotton cots that they were given. The rest looked like a set-dressed porn shoot - cheesy artwork on the steel walls painted to look somewhat presentable, an oriental rug on the grated floor, a lamp complete with silk scarf draped over the shade, and baskets of condoms and lube for when they were needed. But customers couldn't get lost in the fantasy in their normal cells - rusted metal and cots. That was pretty much it. Cameras watched on any normal day, he knew that because the ladies (and some men) had taken to the young fighter, so Stephanie wasn't his only customer. But this wasn't a normal day and the blinking red lights had gone black.

“Sorry.” He replied with a shrug and his best cocky smirk, the one he knew drove her wild. “Man's gotta eat, yah know.”

“I've got something you can eat.” She chuckled before settling herself on the bed and pulling her shirt over her head. He could see she wasn't wearing any panties under her professional attire. At least she tried to keep up appearances. “Now, get over here.”

He did as instructed and sauntered over to her with a lustful look in his eyes, the one he knew she would want to see. Her grin widened when he stopped right in front of her, looking down with a smirk on his face. She reached for the fly of his jeans without breaking eye contact, easily undoing the button and pulling down the fly.

She liked to touch him, unlike so many others that just wanted a good fuck and threw him to the curb without so much as a thank you. He didn't mind, at least it was better than the Arena. But not Stephanie. She liked to feel him harden under her touch, liked to see the shivers of pleasure she could draw out of him, liked to make sure he was just as pleased as she was by the end of it all.

When her hand reached into his pants and pulled him free he was already half hard and he gasped as her fingers wrapped around his length. She stroked him several times, bringing him to full hardness before instructing him to get on his knees. He knew what she wanted and didn't wait to be asked to push her skirt up to her waist and run his calloused hands down her outer thighs, directing her legs to his shoulders. Giving her one last cocky smirk, he dove in, kissing and biting at her inner thighs. He knew she liked it a little rough and made sure to give her just what she wanted without being told.

“Don't leave marks...” She panted after one particularly hard bite and he backed off, finally letting his mouth travel to her center and running his tongue along the slit. She drew in a sharp breath and fell back into the bed. He knew just how to work her up and did everything he knew how with his tongue to leave her a moaning, panting mess. Her hands found their way into his shorter hair and tugged when he found a sensitive spot, which he then exploited to keep her on the edge before moving on. By the time she had her first orgasm, her back was arched off the bed and her fingers were so tangled in his hair it was borderline painful.

He began kissing up her legs to her hip, her stomach, her chest, her collarbone and neck, stopping at her jawline to run his teeth across her skin. She didn't like to be kissed on the mouth, not by a prisoner like him - too intimate - so he avoided it and nibbled at her ear.

He was slightly surprised when she flipped him easily onto his back and straddled his thin waist. Reaching over the side of the bed and coming back with a condom, she tore it open and rolled it onto him without so much as a warning and positioned him where she wanted him before sinking him into her. They moaned out together at the sudden intense feeling.

“You're so warm.” He breathed as she began to move on him, rocking her hips slowly at first but picking up speed fairly quickly.

“Shut up Ambrose.” She panted, closing her eyes and throwing her head back and getting lost in the feeling of him stretching her.

He attempted to run his hands along her legs but she grabbed them and planted them above his head, interlocking their fingers as she rode him. “ _Fuck_ , you feel so good.”

A small spark of pride settled in his chest at the praise but it wasn't something he held onto for long. She could praise his bedroom prowess as much as she wanted, but at the end of the day he was still her property.

“Are you close?” She asked, looking deep into his blue eyes, obviously on the edge of her second orgasm. “Come with me, baby!”

“Yes.” He answered as he thrust up into her and she groaned out his name.

They came together in a shuddering, tangled mess of screams and cries of bliss - mainly from her. She rode him a few more times, making his orgasm for all it was worth, before falling to the side and lying on the bed next to him.

He stared at the ceiling trying to catch his breath as he came down from the high.

“So?” She asked. She liked praise, to know she had drawn as much pleasure out of him as he did her. He guessed that was probably the best scenario he could ask for, someone who remotely cared about his needs even if they were purely sexual.

“That never gets old.” He answered in a huff of breath and looked over to grin at her, showing off the dimples he knew she liked to see because after everything, no matter how she praised him or wanted him to feel good, it was all about her. He had to keep her happy if he wanted to keep her ear.

And he needed that advantage.

Her toothy grin was enough to tell him he had succeeded.

Their tryst over, she pulled herself from the bed and began dressing, rigging her skirt and smoothing out the wrinkles before searching for her shirt and putting it back on. He did the same, though he was decidedly more dressed than she was- they hadn't even managed to take his tank top off. He slid the condom off and trashed it before stuffing himself back into his pants and refastening them.

“Listen, Ambrose,” she began and he did just that, giving her his full attention. “You've got fight Saturday.”

His body froze. She said it so matter-of-factly that it was almost as if she didn't care that every fight they were put in was a potential death sentence. He'd been in many since he started here, and surprised many at surviving this long, but that made them no less terrifying. He'd killed more men than he cared to admit.

All for their amusement.

But he wasn't supposed to be scared. No, he was supposed to take it and survive. The longer you did, the more you were worth.

And he was worth a lot.

“I'm putting my money on you.” She continued, obviously unaware he had gone still. “But make it a good one. It's a new recruit, should be easy.”

They are never easy.

Ever.


	3. Cellmate

There wasn't enough time, hot water, or soap to scrub the dirty feeling from his skin after every encounter with Stephanie. Sure, he appeased her, played the wanton sex god if that's what she wanted, but he hated every second of it. He hated what he had to do to survive in this hell hole. But he did it. And he'd do it all with a smile on his face if that's what it took. 

He let the water run down his back and shoulders, trying to at least wash away the memory. Hot water was a privilege anyway, so the fact that it was ice cold didn't bother him much. He was used to it. After as long as he was allowed, he dried off and tried to brush the taste of her out of his mouth. It never really worked. 

He had to keep telling himself that he did it just to survive. Survive for what? Another week in this shit scape until he fought in the Arena again? Another week of making Stephanie happy? Another week of a useless existence that would otherwise be better utilized dead? He had no family on the outside, no one waiting for him if he even survived. He was just about a year into a five year sentence and even that felt like borrowed time. Hell, maybe it was. 

Looking at himself in the filthy mirror, he was disgusted by what he had become. Pale skin seeming paler with every day that passed, blue eyes sunken into tired flesh and stubble that never seemed to go away, hair cut unevenly by Arena barbers that never seemed to get out of his eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back. But that was all physical, nothing to bat an eyelash at. It was the emotional and psychological scars littering his body that tore at him. Like the scar above his left eye, given to him by a friend he was forced to fight in the arena, one he killed; The busted shoulder that was dislocated when his former cellmate tried to steal what little food he could from Dean and he had to fight back; a stab wound in his chest that nearly killed him. He wished it had. One inch to the left and he'd be in the sweet bliss of whatever afterlife there might be. 

Yet here he was, clinging to the false sense of self preservation because what else could he do? 

A shake of his head as he gave himself one last disgusted look was what he settled on before dressing in the same clothes he was wearing before even washing. No one had much more than what they entered with; his just happened to be a ratty pair of jeans, some old boots that now had a hole forming in the sole, and a black tank top. At least the black hid the blood for the most part. But he washed it as best he could in the sink from time to time, for some normalcy. 

Lockdown was lonely. He was one of the few men here without a cellmate - his last one having been sent to the pit a few weeks back when he tried to steal and no one had heard from him since. Stealing wasn't an issue here, it was getting caught. The punishment for that was pretty brutal, so odds were he was dead. Shame, really. Dean liked him. Sami was his name, Sami Callahan. Though, he didn't know what his name had been before. 

That sent a pang of guilt through him as he leaned back in his bunk and the lights went out.   
Then again, no one here knew his real name. Names were dangerous things and the first piece of your identity they took. If you were caught using your real name or telling someone else, it was the Pit. 

Just one more way big brother controlled them. 

Nights were scary in the Arena prison. The sounds of lonely, angry men who weren't selected for sex and whose only means of release was fighting in the Arena were brutal. Screams and cries of the weak being overpowered by the strong usually filled the space as soon as the lights went out. Tonight was no different. 

He could usually tune it out, but it still chilled him to the bone to hear begging and fighting and the grunts of pain and pleasure intermingled with each other. 

He remembered his first week here, when he was saddled with a cellmate who fancied himself big and tough. He saw Dean with his skinny waist and lythe form and thought he could take advantage. Dean had knocked him out with a vicious headbutt and stomped his boot into the man's groin. He never tried it again. These other guys just didn't have it in them to fight back.

He was used to the fighting, even before he was put here. He was no stranger to connecting a punch or a well placed kick. People on the outside, those whom he had _thought_ were his friends, used to call him The Street Dog, scrappy and unpredictable, willing to claw your eyes out without giving it a second thought. 

It came in handy during his first fight. He killed his opponent then, just like every other time. Now, the gamemakers called him The Lunatic Fringe. It was a stupid nickname, but very few lived long enough to even be given one. The name made him popular, and was enough to secure him fans and supporters that actually wanted to see him live. That was rare, but he'd take it.

He needed to sleep. Sleeping me at he wasn't conscious enough to remember where he was. So, just like every other night, he rolled onto his side and covered his ears with his hands hoping to silence the sounds around him. He drifted off into a dreamless sleep before long, thankful to forget for a while. 

\---

“Ambrose!” 

He jumped at the sound of the riot club hitting the doorframe of his cell to accentuate the angry way the guard yelled his name. The lights were still out, so lockdown wasn't over. 

“What the fuck?” He snapped, confused, using one hand to cover his eyes to shield against the bright fluorescent lights of the hallway. 

“Stand up.” The guard instructed. They were never pleasant individuals. 

He did as he was told with a groggy grumble because the guard would use that riot club and he had no desire to be hit with it. “What's -?”

His question was swallowed when the guard shoved another man into the cell and closed it without a word. Apparently, he had a new cellmate. The man stood shaking in front of the door, eyes darting every which way, trying to make desperate sense of his situation. Dean knew the guards would have told the poor sap very little, leaving him to fend for himself amongst the wolves. 

He scrubbed a hand down his face and tried to make sense of this situation himself. They never sent in new meat in the middle of the night, yet here this man stood, obviously terrified. “Fuck. Are you alright?”

“This can't be happening.” Was all that was said back. In fact, he proceeded to repeat that phrase over and over until he fell back against the door and slid down to the grated metal floor, drawing his knees to his chest and burying his head in his folded arms. 

Great. They sent him a panicked one. 

Knowing he wouldn't get much sleep until he calmed down, Dean approached him carefully and crouched down to his level, simply observing for now. He was still muttering the phrase into his arms when Dean spoke. 

“Hey, calm down.”

He lifted his head so suddenly Dean almost fell back onto his haunches. He was angry now on top of being panicked. Now a good combination. “Calm down!? CALM DOWN!? I-I'm screwed. I don't want to die in the Arena!”

“No one does, buddy.” He responded flatly, trying to remain somewhat calm himself. He didn't want to slap him, but he would if he had to. “Look, what's your name?”

“Col-”

Dean held up a hand to stop him. “Never give out your real name. What name did _they_ give you?”

He stopped for a second to think, that was at least some sort of progress. Without all his frantic movements, Dean could at least get a better look at him. He was young, probably about the same age as Dean; His hair was longer and had a weird blond streak down one side; his eyes were dark and surprisingly kind; only a tight black pants, boots, and a tee shirt on him. It looked like the guards had roughed him up too, a nasty shiner already forming on his cheekbone and a split lip. That wasn't unusual though. 

“Seth.” He said after a moment. “Seth Rollins.”

“Well, Seth Rollins, I'm Dean Ambrose.”

His eyes widened slightly in recognition, “ _The_ Dean Ambrose? The Lunatic Fringe?”

Of course he'd heard of him. Why not? 

“Yeah, but don't hold that against me.” He helped this Seth kid up onto Sami’s old bunk and watched him for a few seconds before going back to his own and lying back down. “Get some sleep if you can.”

“What's all those noises?”

“Best to tune them out.”


	4. The hole

“Where'd the scrub come from?” 

Dean looked up from his tray and grinned just as the only friend he had in this hell hole sat down. Roman Reigns, all broad shoulders, big muscles, tan skin, and an attitude to back up his brooding good looks. Needless to say, he also got a lot of attention from those willing to pay for a night with the Samoan. 

He was nodding his head toward Dean’s new roommate as he fought for position in the breakfast line. He was skittery and damn near respectful as prisoners just pushed their way in front of him. He even tried to say something to a particularly angry Irishman named Sheamus, but got nothing but a punch to the gut for his troubles. 

Sure, Dean could have helped the poor bastard, but if he was stupid enough to sleep through food call and think he could somehow respectfully request his way to a position that was on him. He'd have to learn his lesson somehow. 

Dean put a forkful of what was supposed to be eggs into his mouth. He doubted he'd had real eggs at all since he got here. The food wasn't that bad if you didn't think about it too hard. “They woke me up middle of the night and shoved this panicked asshole into my cell.” 

Roman looked back at the half blonde man now looking disappointedly at an almost empty tray, having apparently only scored a roll for his efforts. “Wonder what he's in for.” He mused, more to himself than Dean. 

“Don't know, don't care.” He replied before downing his imitation coffee type drink and pushing his now empty tray aside. “It's just like everything else in here, Ro. The less you know the better.”

“Aren't you the least bit curious?” He asked, eyebrow quirked just enough to challenge an answer. 

Dean shook his head. No, he wasn't curious. He wasn't curious because curiosity could literally get you killed. Ask the wrong question of the wrong person and you might get a shiv in the side when you least expect it. The only solace there would be the guy who stabbed you would probably be headed to the Pit for damaging Arena property anyway, so there was that. 

Thankfully, Roman didn't press the matter, also being well aware of the implications. He turned his head away from Seth and leaned in so only Dean could hear him and wiggled his eyebrows. “I heard Stephanie came a’calling for you yesterday.”

He rolled his eyes. It was no secret the bosses daughter had a fondness for the auburn man, but he hated the fact that everyone saw him as a teacher's pet, almost. They figured he had access to special information, special treatment, special privileges they might never see. Like Stephanie brought him steak and chocolates every time she saw him. Little did they know he'd be lucky to get anything but his rocks off and maybe a little information here and there. But it was enough to keep a certain reputation that was useful. And he knew, based on the way Roman was looking at him, he was hoping Dean knew something he'd share. 

If it were anyone else but Roman, someone he trusted as much as you could trust a guy in prison, he wouldn't have said anything. As it were, he threw the man a bone he wouldn't like. “There's a fight Saturday.” He whispered. 

Roman's smile fell and was immediately replaced with the same horrified shock that Dean had felt when he was told. “What?”

“You heard me, Ro.” He said quieter, sadder. “I don't know the roster other than I'm scheduled.”

“Fuck!” He spat and ran a hand down his face in a failed attempt to make sense of the situation. 

Fights were not things that were scheduled weekly, monthly, yearly, or otherwise. They were random events built up to unbelievably hyped levels that the public at large craved. Word of a fight scheduling was like the olympics or Super Bowl. They were spectacles of blood and excitement that showcased them as gods. For the Arena inmates, they were a likely death sentence. Many in here thought the random nature of these spectacles was simply a way to thin the prison population down. Looking around now, both of them knew half the people in the mess hall would be dead by Saturday. 

“She tell you who you're fighting?” Roman asked solemnly. 

He shook his head in response, “No. Just that it's a newbie. Could be Seth for all I know.”

“If that be the case, I wouldn't get too close to the man.” Roman offered as if Dean didn't already know that. What did he think would happen? They’d exchange pound cake recipes and become best of buddies? Dean wasn't that stupid. 

“I think you know me better than that, Ro.” He countered with a crooked grin that only made the large Samoan sigh. 

“No, I don't.” He said “But we both know it's better that way.”

A commotion at another table drew both their attention. Kevin Owens and his posse of vagrants were standing over Seth, crowding his space with their large bodies. Dean sighed and shook his head for the poor son of a bitch. Owens was going to destroy him. 

“I said, give me your food!” The large man demanded, taking a hold of Seth's shirt and tugging him up. Dean had to give him credit though, he told the very intimidating Owens to go fuck himself. It was a stupid thing to say, but no less bold when someone like him was right in your face. 

“How dare you, _scrub_!” Owens yelled and pulled Seth to his feet. But again, he foolishly stood his ground. Maybe Seth was getting the hang of this after all. But, if he kept this up, there would be a fight. A fight meant the hole. The hole wasn't where he would want anyone to end up on their first day. Dean knew that because he'd lived it. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Roman called after him as he pushed himself to his feet and was already halfway to Owens before he could even register what he was doing. 

_This is a bad idea._ he thought to himself over and over but couldn't stop his feet from moving forward, couldn't stop himself when he grabbed Kevin from behind and pulled him away from Rollins, couldn't stop himself from stepping between them, and couldn't stop himself from telling Owens to fuck off. 

“What the hell are you doing, Ambrose?” Ownes snapped, getting up in Dean's face but not grabbing for him like he did Seth. He knew better than that. 

“I told you.” Dean replied evenly, though no less dangerously, “Fuck off.”

“And what are you going to do about it if I don't, huh?”

“Look, I don't want to go to the hole today, but if it means I get to kick your ass after what you did yesterday, I'll gladly take it.” Dean said with a dangerous smirk. 

Owens stared Dean down with fists clenched at his side, shifting from foot to foot as he was seriously considering punching Dean in the face. But he could see the apprehension there, the possibility of the hole too strong to really throw a punch. “Why you protecting the pretty little scrub, huh?” He asked after a minute. “You hit that already?”

“Who says I'm protecting _him_?” Dean replied, the smirk still plastered on his face. He knew this was a dangerous play, but if Seth didn't establish some sort of reputation from the get go, he'd be torn apart by these animals. If anyone in here could give him credibility in that regard, it'd be Ambrose. 

“Yeah, right!” Owens laughed, though there was an edge of nervousness there. “This puny dipshit couldn't hurt me if he tried.”

“You really want to test that big man?” Seth added from behind Dean. Though he never broke eye contact with Owens, he felt a little spark of respect ignite for the two toned newbie.

Owens was again shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide how worth it proving Ambrose and the scrub wrong would be, but ending up taking several steps away from the pair after a few seconds. “This isn't over, scrub!”

He and Seth watched Owens and his posse walk away, shooting one last angry glance at them over his shoulder. Well, that ended better than he thought it would. But Owens wouldn't give up now that he had Rollins in his sights. Hopefully Dean had given him enough of a boost to keep him off his ass for a few days. 

“Dean -”

He turned around and gave Seth a hard look,cutting off whatever he was about to say. He shouldn't have even gotten involved in the first place, even if he felt bad for the man now looking at him with a face somewhere between apologetic and thankful. 

“You should have just given him your roll.” 

Seth was obviously taken aback, “What would that have accomplished?”

“He'd have left you alone.”

“I tried being nice and all it got me was that fucking piece of cardboard that was hard as a rock anyway!” He snapped at Dean, who only smirked his response which seemed to piss Seth off. He liked the face he made when he was angry; eyebrows drawn in, lips pursed, nostrils flaring. It didn't matter how mad he might be, it didn't negate the fact that Seth should have just given Owens what he wanted. It was only a roll and not his ass, which was now probably on the big mans radar considering he called Seth pretty. 

Dean said nothing else to Seth as he stepped away. There was nothing else to say. He'd saved his ass for the moment, maybe have him some sort of reputation that could save his skin at some point, but that was it. 

And he probably shouldn't have even don't that. 

Sitting back down in front of Roman, he pushed his tray to the side and scrubbed a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You're an idiot.” Roman laughed with a shake of his head.

“Yeah, I know.”

But Roman froze just as Dean was about to say so witty, sarcastic remark that would have been pure gold. A gloved hand on his shoulder made him jump. 

“Come with us, Ambrose.”

He turned to see three guards flanking him, each with a riot club and one with a cattle prod and a pair of handcuffs. “What for?”

“Owens says you and the new prisoner jumped him.” Said the guard on the left. He was smirking, Dean could see it. He knew the guards didn't like him for the same reason most prisoners didn't. He had Stephanie's ear. So any chance they could get to screw him over, they took. “It's the hole for twelve hours.”

Dean was on his feet quickly, defensive. “I never touched that lying mother fucker!”

“His bloody nose says otherwise.” Answered the one on the right. “You gonna come quietly or should we make it twenty-four hours?”

Clenching and unclenching his hands at his side, Dean seriously weighed out the pros and cons of kicking at least one of them in the balls. Ultimately, he was better off going quietly, so he turned around and let them cuff him. He could see Seth getting cuffed as well, though he looked far more panicked than Dean. Then again, this wasn't Dean's first time in the hole. 

They led he and Seth from the mess hall and he got a glimpse of Owens sitting off to the side looking proud of himself with blood still dripping from his nose and a swollen eye. He probably had one of his goons punch him and went to tattletale immediately. Dean hated him. He wanted nothing more than to have actually done what he was accused of at this point. He'd have loved to break Kevin's nose, maybe a couple of teeth. But he had to settle on snarling at him as he was led by the arm by a guard as Kevin grinned and mouthed _I win_. 

\---

The hole isn't actually a hole at all. It's a box. A box just large enough to fit one, maybe two people into it. It was too narrow to sit and too short to stand, so the unlucky person put in there was either stuck kneeling or crouching. Either way, it was painful on the joints and muscles that had to be forced into an uncomfortable position for extended periods of time. And it was ungodly hot to boot.

He wasn't surprised they shoved he and Seth in there together, but that didn't mean he was happy about it. Twelve hours stuck in a twisted position with another person to take up half of the already cramped space was torture. And they didn't even take the cuffs off. 

“See you in twelve hours, boys” laughed the guard as he closed and locked the door, leaving he and Seth is almost total darkness. 

“What do we do now?” Seth asked, trying to shift his weight as best he could and doing nothing but kneeing Dean in the groin. “Oh my god! I'm sorry!”

“Shut the fuck up, Seth!” He grumbled out as he tried to get his breathing under control. “This is your fault anyway.”

“My fault?”

“Yeah, your fault.” 

“I don't recall asking for your help.”

This time Dean tried to shift, but he was pretty well stuck with his chest and head pressing against Seth's shoulder, his knees bent to allow for the height, and his back pressed against the back of the box. Seth was in a similar position. If anyone were to look at them, they'd probably think they were hugging or necking. “You should have just -”

“Laid down like a little bitch and given Owens what he wanted?” 

“Yes!”

“If you were me, would you have just let him take what he wanted.”

The question threw Dean offguard. It was a fair question, one whose answer was a resounding _fuck no_ , but one he wasn't going to answer either. He simply grumbled annoyedly. 

“That's what I thought.” Seth stated. If Dean could see his face he knew there'd be a triumphant grin there. Then after a beat, “Thank you, by the way.”

Dean rolled his eyes even though Seth couldn't see them. “For what?”

“Picking up for me.” Seth answered. “You didn't have to, most wouldn't have. Why did you?”

“Oddly enough, so you wouldn't end up in the hole on the first day.”

“How'd that work out for you?”

“Shut up, Seth.”


	5. Whispers of Rebellion

“H-how long has i-it been…” 

It felt like he had asked that question a million times. And hell, he might have for all Dean knew. But he also didn't care. His legs were on fire with every tiny movement in the small space sending shockwaves of pain through his joints and muscles, he had lost feeling in his fingers ages ago, his shoulders were cramping thanks to the awkward positioning, and his body was sweating rivulets of moisture out like he could spare the hydration. Two bodies in this small space was enough to make the already ungodly hot confinement feel like it was damn near on fire and he absently wondered if hell would be cooler at this point. 

What worried him was that Seth was fading, he had been for a while now. He could feel the other man's head lull against his shoulder every so often as pain and exhaustion took their toll. But he had to stay awake, otherwise he could go into shock. The only thing worse than being stuck in this hot as fuck box with another person would be being stuck in this hot as fuck box with a dead person. So Dean would fight the pain and nudge Seth's face with his shoulder. That would at least get him conscious and he would ask how long it had been before the process would begin again. Dean was just as dehydrated, just as exhausted, in just as much pain...he was just more used to it at this point. 

He had to keep Seth awake, otherwise he'd have a dead scrub on his hands - which he was sure the guards for find a way to blame him for it. “Hey, you gotta stay awake.” He found himself saying with a wince as he nudged Seth with his shoulder. His voice sounded hoarse to himself, like he hadn't used it in ages. His mouth was dry, his hair was soaked, and he had a half conscious man leaning against him. 

There was no reply this time, just a barely there noise of some sort as his head completely fell to Dean's shoulder. “C’mon, dude! Wake up.”

“H-how...ho-w do we...do it…” he mumbled. 

Was he just babbling incoherently? He didn't want to hear anything he shouldn't, so he tried to change the subject. “Hey, tell me your favorite food. We don't get much in here, so…”

“He s-said...He said th-the do-or would be...open.”

“Godammit, Rollins!”

“H-Helmsley...Ambr-ose…”

Thy caught his attention. He knew he should pry, prying got you killed, prying got you sent to the pit. But Rollins was completely out of it, babbling something about open doors and Helmsley and himself. Why? For some reason, he did exactly what he knew he shouldn't, “What about Ambrose?”

“Re-rebel...rebellion…”

It was said so quietly against his ear, Dean wasn't sure he heard that correctly. Did he say _rebellion_? What rebellion? Was he just babbling nonsensically thanks to hallucinations caused by exhaustion and dehydration? And what did Ambrose have to do with Helmsley? 

Ambrose couldn't care less if Helmsley crawled in a hole and died. He had no connection to the man, nor did he want one. It was bad enough he had to deal with his wife's bedroom neediness. 

No, it was all just incoherent babbling of a struggling mind, that's all. He wouldn't press the matter any further, he wouldn't even mention it. He would do what was safest and pretend he'd never heard it. 

He vaguely registered falling to the floor, after God knew how much time had passed after Seth finally passed out, when they opened the box, the sharp pain to his shoulder jolting as the bucket of ice water dumped on his - their - heads. Seth wasn't exactly conscious, but the labored rise and fall of his chest meant he at least wasn't dead. 

“Rise and shine.” The guard chuckled, dropping the heavy bucket to the floor with an unceremonious clang of plastic to metal. “Time's up.”

He felt hands slip under his arms and wrench him to his feet, the sharp movement hell on his joints and muscles that had been shoved into one position for twelve hours, and he grunted through gritted teeth. 

The guard stepped into his eyeline and Dean could just hear the satisfied smirk on his voice. “How you feeling, Ambrose?” 

His own voice was hoarse when he answered, smart assed and full of barely controlled sarcasm. “Oh, just peachy. I could'a done that all day.”

The guard looked him over as if seriously considering putting him back in the Hole. Dean just supplied a challenging, lopsided smirk as I'd daring him to do just that. Old habits die hard, apparently. He didn't put him back in, instead he gave a curt nod to his men and he and Seth were dragged away, completely unable to move on their own at this point. 

The infirmary was the next stop. Glorified butchers who got off on pain and anguish as much as the torturers in the Pit. At least they were kind enough to remove the cuffs before shoving a needle in his arm with little pretense, or warning, to give him fluids to replace the ones he'd sweated out over the last twelve hours. He was really too exhausted to do little more than wince. 

Seth was lying on a cot to his left. He was still pretty out of it when they did the same to him. Probably for the best to be honest. His breathing had returned to a more normal pace as his body started to recover. A small smile played on his lips when he tried to lift his hand to push the nurse away only to have it swatted back down with a threat of restraints if he kept it up. There was a fire in him, that was for sure. 

Rebellious, even.

His smile disappeared at that thought. One word stuck out in Dean's head as he watched him. One said in the fevered delirium of a man in pain; a word he shouldn't be thinking, one he definitely shouldn't be curious about. Rebellion. 

Rebellion.

Rebellion.

It echoed in his head over and over. 

Rebellion.

Rebellion.

Was there such a thing? And why, of all people on this planet, did it involve Dean Ambrose? It shouldn't. He sure as hell didn't want it to. He also mentioned Helmsley, as in Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Triple H himself. Stephanie's husband. 

“Fuck.” He grumbled, preferring to find a spot on the ceiling far more interesting than he should. 

They were shuffled out of the infirmary pretty much on their own steam, Dean supporting Seth's weight the best he could to just get them out of there. They were lead by a guard back to the main area where the prisoners were gathered listening to one of McMahon's messengers. 

Dean tensed.

Seth felt it. “What's the matter?”

His eyes were dinner plates, he knew that. But Seth hadn't been here when fights had been announced before. The feel of the entire complex changed as proverbial death sentences were handed down to individuals who may or may not be alive within the next week. 

It sounded like they were already in the middle of naming fighters when they entered. 

“Owens fighting Woods.” The messenger said. It was almost a clinical tone, one they all had, one that was almost as chilling as what they were reading. “Cesaro fighting Miz. Reigns fighting Sheamus…”

Roman was scheduled. His heart sank when he found him in the crowd, head down and eyes closed. Fuck. He could beat Sheamus. He hoped. 

“Ambrose fighting…”

Again, his heart sank. He could feel Seth's eyes boring into the side of his head, but his brain was in overload, to tense to care. 

“...Neville. That's all for now. Good luck gentleman.”

Neville? Who was Neville?


	6. Pre-Fight Jitters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this has been a while coming. Tough to get back in the game. As always, mind the tags.

The night before fights, no one really slept. Even those sounds of the strong overpowering the weak were silenced, giving a reprieve to those who couldn't protect themselves. Those poor bastards would be the ones that would die tomorrow. After, a fresh batch of prisoners would begin trickling into the arena prison and the process would begin again. This was a dog eat dog situation, Darwinism at work, where only the strong would survive. But the dead were the lucky ones in Dean's book. They got to leave the hell that was this place, even if it was in a body bag. 

“Are you alright?” Seth asked him for what felt like the hundredth time since lockdown. 

Dean only glanced at him briefly. He'd been pacing, he knew that, but this wasn't a situation where he could keep still. He would have to kill a man tomorrow or die trying. It wasn't something that he took lightly, it wasn't something that he enjoyed, and it definitely wasn't something he was looking forward to. People he knew and cared about were going to be in that arena too, Roman could die just as easily as he could kill. He'd lost a lot of people he could have grown to like that way. 

Seth was up and in his path - not the smartest move - arms out as if appeasing a pacing lion. Maybe it wasn't the furthest off comparison. “Dean, you really should sit down.” 

“You need to get out of my space.” Was his growled reply as he shoved Seth aside to continue his pacing. 

“Are you always like this before a fight?”

It was probably meant as an innocent question, but Dean took it as a personal slight and was suddenly pushing Seth against the wall, forearm braced against his neck. “Do you understand what's going to happen tomorrow?”

“A fight?” He ground out while trying to release some of the pressure from Dean's arm. 

Wrong again. “No, it's not just _a fight_ , Seth! It's televised murder. I'm going to have to kill someone tomorrow, someone who has done absolutely nothing to me, someone just as freaked out as I am, all because some sadistic motherfucker behind a desk thinks it'll be great entertainment. ‘Showcase of the Immortals’ is a bullshit line and propaganda to keep the masses interested.”

Seth put his hands up, not struggling anymore, waiting for Dean to release his chokehold on him. One more hard look and a snarl and Dean let him go with a shove. The younger man drew in a large breath and coughed. “I'm sorry.”

“Not yet you aren't.” He said and sat on his bunk before snatching at his hair and tugging, hoping the pain would calm his nerves. False hope. 

Their door opened and a guard filled the space of the frame. “You're summoned.”

Great, perfect, just what he needed right now. Like he could even think about getting it up right now. Dean stood, ready to get this over with. It wasn't unusual for Stephanie to want to get one last fuck in just in case he didn't make it the following day. However, the hand in his chest stopped him. “Not you, Ambrose. Him.”

He looked back at Seth in shock. He was just as dumbfounded as Dean was and swallowed hard. “Me? What for?”

“Just go, Seth.” Dean said, taking a step back. As the younger man moved forward, Dean grabbed his arm and pulled him close to whisper in his ear. “Make sure whoever it is, you do what you're told no matter what.”

Another hard swallow and Seth nodded. Dean patted him on the shoulder and let go for him to follow the guard out. The door closed and Dean began pacing again, grateful for the quiet.

Seth had returned several hours after they've called him out looking disheveled and bruised, nursing a split lip and limping ever so slightly. They shoved him into the cell and he stumbled forward. He only glanced at Dean for a second before slumping onto his bunk and pulling his knees against his chest. Dean just watched him, tracking his movements with wary concern. Whoever had paid for him wasn't kind, and maybe Seth had taken his advice a little too literally. 

“You okay?” He asked, knowing full well he should have just minded his own business. He had a fight to worry about, not his scrub of a cellmate who'd unfortunately found himself on the wrong end of a deal gone bad. It unfortunately happened, it's happened to Dean. Get the wrong person pay for your company, things get out of hand, next thing you know three guards are holding you down and things proceed like they were always going to. He wished he could say it didn't happen often.

Seth just shook his head and retreated further into himself. He knew he shouldn't do this, but he pulled himself off his bunk and walked over to him. Seth was feisty, defiant, and definitely not one to take a beating lying down, but what happened - and Dean could guess - was far beyond his control. He sat on the bunk, just allowing himself to be in Seths presence, a comfort he probably didn't want considering Dean had him pinned by the neck against a wall a few short hours ago. Their eyes met and Dean knew that look, the defeated stare of a man who had just been traumatized. In all likelihood, he'd have one very similar tomorrow if he won. 

“D-do they ask for everyone like this?” He asked, a sniff barely hidden in his voice. 

“No.” Dean answered truthfully. 

“Do they ask for you?”

A sad smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Yes.”

“Have they ever...h-held you down?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they can.” He says, placing a hand on Seth knee in a way he hoped was a comfort. “Who was it?”

Seth shrugged. “Some man. Said I was in a catalog. Said he wanted to break me in.”

Dean breathed a sad sigh. “I'd like to tell you it gets easier. But it wouldn't be fair to lie.”

Seth's eyes were glassy when the found Deans again and he could see the hurt there mixed with something he couldn't place. Then he laughed a stupid little dismissive chuckle and wiped his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Hey, do not be sorry.” Dean said. “You didn't deserve that as much as I don't deserve to fight tomorrow. We can at least be a comfort to each other if nothing else.”

Seth offered him a small smile and shifted his body so he could lay his head on Dean's lap. Not really sure what to do, he hesitated. He settled on resting his hand on Seth's shoulder. It was the best he could offer him right now.


	7. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence and death in this chapter. You've been warned

Fight days were spectacles for everyone but those fighting. There was pyrotechnics, bands playing loud music, food, giveaways, crowds screaming, and fanfare a plenty. Unless you were behind the scenes. For many men scheduled, this would be their last day on this planet, and they would get to go out with hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children begging for their blood. 

Dean had done this four times before, and he was currently the longest living competitor on the roster. That should be an indication as to how long the life expectancy was in the arena. Of a total of 10 fights, he was scheduled last, hoping his status would keep the crowds in their seats until the very last bout. 

They came and got him early in the morning. The rest of those not scheduled would be confined to their cells for the entirety of the day, so he gave Seth a sad sort of look and a quick “take care of yourself” before following the guards out. The twenty men scheduled stood side by side as a roll call was taken. He stood next to Roman, offering him what little comfort he could. This was only the Samoans third fight, which put him at second longest living on the roster, followed closely by Owens at two. The rest, this was their first bout and many wouldn't live to see another. 

“How you holding up?” He heard whispered from Roman. 

He took a breath, “As good as can be expected. You?”

“Same.” Then Roman squeezed his forearm as the last piece of solidarity they would have before everything went to shit. 

They were led to the arena gate, given their instructions, and separated from those they'd be fighting with. It was determined that Roman would be in a weapons battle, which heavily favored Sheamus. Before they were split apart, he gave Roman one last mournful look. Roman just offered a sad sort of smile and a quick “See you on the other side.”

That could mean one of two things, and neither seemed promising.

Then the waiting began. He could hear the cheers and boos, hear the announcer spit the rhetoric some shitty writer gave them to hype up the crowds. It always made him roll his eyes. They weren't privileged enough to actually watch the fights, confined to small cells with two door - one to the backstage area, and one directly into the arena - but he could hear them. He could hear the sickening thud of every punch and kick, the cracking sound of bone breaking, and the awful moans of men dying. Those are sounds you never forget. 

Owens and Woods were first, the announcer introducing them as Gods of the Arena. He was sure Owens loved that, doing nothing for his already inflated ego. The match was short, lasting maybe five minutes, with Owens walking away the victor. Poor Woods. He was an eccentric, but ultimately a good guy. The crowd was going wild and Dean absently wondered if it was a quick death. 

Cesaro and Miz were next. Theirs lasted quite a bit longer, and it seemed as if their might not have had a clear winner. The announcer broke through the roaring of the crowd with the practiced cover of “We are consulting the judges...No winner will be announced at this time.”

That meant they were either both dead or dying. Unusual, but not unheard of. 

The next few fights were long, drawn out, and torturous to listen to. It made Dean lean against the wall and clamp his hands over his ears in an attempt to quiet some of the sounds that felt like they were choking his very soul. He couldn't take much more and keep his sanity, it was impossible. He was rocking in place when the back door to his cell opened. Spinning around quickly, he didn't know who he expected to see, but Hunter Hearst Helmsley was definitely last on that list.

“Hello Dean.” He said, friendly and conversational like Dean wasn't about to go murder someone in his arena. He was smiling, broad and wide. Maybe he was feeling the excitement of the day, maybe he was just a sick asshole. Dean couldn't decide which so he just regarded him with a blank expression that he hoped didn't offend him. The last thing he needed was to be on the bad side of the man that essentially owned him. “Are you excited for your fight?”

The question was simple and spoke volumes about how disconnected he was. How could Dean be excited about murdering another man? How could he actually _want_ to be sitting here, giddy at the idea of taking a life? I wanted to yell, he wanted to scream, he wanted to punch Helmsley right in his stupid fucking nose. But what did he do? He nodded like the idiot he was. What else could he do? 

“Good.” Hunter said, grin still there but a darkness seemed to sweep over his eyes for a brief second. Then he began circling him, observing every twitch of muscle, every movement, like Dean was a prized stallion about to race in the Kentucky Derby. When he spoke again, it was clinical and cold, a far cry from the excitement he exuded when he first came in. This was a man about to discuss business and Dean didn't know if he like the idea of discussing anything with this man. “As you know, you are the longest surviving competitor on the roster today. Not an easy feat. How do you feel about that?”

Was he supposed to answer? Was he supposed to say something? Dean wasn't sure, so he shrugged. It seemed noncommittal enough to maybe get Hunter off his back. 

Helmsley came back around to face Dean again, grin still plastered on his face. “You don't say much, do you?”

“Only when I have to.” He answered and was supposed to see the grin widen. 

“Dean, the people out there have been clamoring for you since the fights were announced.” Helmsley said after a beat. “You are the first competitor I've ever seen them _want_ to keep alive. It leaves me in a strange situation. See, I could put you against stronger opponents and test your metal, but then I run the risk of losing my biggest cash cow. Or, I could give you easy wins, and hope the people will still view you as a viable hero to get behind.” 

Dean stood silent, unsure where this was going but positive he wasn't going to like it. 

Hunter didn't say much more, he just sort of observed Dean with curious contemplation. He patted him on the shoulder, said an ominous “good luck” and headed for the door. Before he left, he turned around and said one more thing. “My wife told me to tell you she's a big fan.”

Dean's blood ran cold for a second at the knowing look he was being given. Hunter left and the door was locked. What was that all about? 

Alone again with the noise of the fights, the deafening roar of the crowd, and the words Helmsley said echoing in his head, he felt more frustrated than normal. Seth's words about rebellion came back to the forefront of his mind. There was something strange happening and he didn't know what that was, which angered him. 

The fight ended with the sickening sound of bone snapping and a body falling to the dirt floor and the roar of the crowd. He didn't have much time to think about much else, Roman's fight was next. He pressed his ear up against the door leading to the arena just as the announcer introduced the fight. “The following is a weapons match. The first opponent to kill the other will be declared the winner. Introducing first, he is the Big Dog, Roman Reigns!” 

The crowd went insane. So Roman had earned a nickname now too. They must have faith in his ability to win. 

“His opponent, Sheamus!” 

The crowd was still loud, but nowhere close to how they had reacted for Roman. However, what little he knew of the Irishman, slipped out during a fight in the mess hall, was that he was some sort of former military. If that be the case, a weapons fight would be heavily weighted in his favor. Maybe Roman was too. He didn't know much about him - no one did because it wasn't something you did if you wanted to stay out of the Pit - but he could very well be some sort of special-ops fighter. Dean just didn't know, but he could hope. 

“C’mon Reigns.” He whispered to himself as the fight got underway. He wished he could see it, just this one. He wanted to know how Roman was fairing, how he was strategizing, what he was doing to win. 

Gunfire rang out, there was a cry that sounded like Roman, and Dean's heart stopped briefly. The crowd was screaming so loudly he could barely hear the fight raging. But it was still going on, so Roman was still alive. More gunfire, more cheering, more fighting. It was going on so long that maybe Roman had a shot, maybe he could pull through. One last round of fire and this time the crowd exploded into charged excitement. There was a pause, and Dean's heart was pounding in his chest. Who won? They hadn't said. Who won!?

The announcer's voice sprang to life. “After checking with medical staff, it is determined that the winner by kill shot is…”

Oh Jesus. Who?!

“Roman Reigns!” 

Dean breathed out a groan of relief so loud he wondered if someone in the arena might hear. Not that he cared, Roman was alive. He'd done it! 

But that only left one more fight...his own. That feeling of relief was quickly replaced with dread and adrenaline as he prepared himself. Standing tall, squaring his shoulders, cracking his knuckles, and stretching out his neck, this was it. Do or die.

The announcer again rang through. “And now, our main event…”

Dean sniffed a humorless laugh at the way the crowd exploded to a noise level far beyond any other competitor. If he wasn't about to murder an innocent man, he might even like it. 

“...the final fight of the night, the one you've all been waiting for. He is the longest surviving competitor alive today. Can he continue that streak? He is the Lunatic Fringe…”

The door to the arena opened and he stepped out into the space, ignoring the blood and carnage already staining the dirt floor. The flash of cameras was blinding, the noise was deafening, the nameless mob was going insane when he stepped into the fighting space, and he couldn't care less. As far as he was concerned, he was just doing what he needed to do to survive. That's what he would always do. 

He stopped in the center of the arena just as the announcer said his name, just barely audible over the cheers. “DEAN AMBROSE!”

He didn't think it was possible, but the crowd got louder. He chances a look around, eyes falling on the owner's box high in the stands above him. He could see Hunter looking at him with an unreadable face, one that worried him. Next to him was Stephanie, looking at him with an entirely different expression. Hers was full of excitement and lust. If he won, he was positive she'd be paying him a visit within the following two days. 

He couldn't think about that right now. He had to keep focused, sharp, aware. 

The announcer introduced his opponent and the door to the other cell opened. Out walked a man who stood almost a foot shorter than him but he was definitely built solid. He didn't remember ever seeing this man around and he wondered where he'd come from. Dangerous waters to dip ones toe in, so he pushed it aside. He had a job to do. Win. 

The fight began and both he and this Neville just sort of stared at each other, waiting for the other to make a move, calculating their own strategy. Dean had the height advantage, and maybe an edge on strength, but his opponent looked like he could be fast. He'd have to keep him where he could get a hold of him. 

“Make a move, Ambrose.” He yelled over the cheers. He sounded foreign. Dean didn't know why that felt important, so he filed it away for if there was a later. 

He let his lip curl into a grin and he could hear a distinctly female pop hit the crowd. He ignored it. “You first.”

Neville shrugged and lunged for him, shoulder tackling him to the dirt and pinning him there. Dean managed to get his arms up as punch after punch started raining down on him. His opponent was deceptively strong. One particularly hard blow left a cut in his eyebrow, now dripping blood into his eyes. He grabbed Dean by the shirt and pulled him to his feet only to land a spin kick to the side of his head. He stumbled, losing his footing and tumbling to the ground again. 

He needed to get the upper hand or this was going to end badly. When Neville made a move to jump on him, he rolled out of the way mere seconds before impact and managed to get himself to his feet. “You're good, I'll give you that.”

“Yeah?” Said Neville with a smirk. “Well, once I beat you I'll be the best.”

Again He lunged at Dean, who just managed to sidestep, sending him headfirst into the dirt. Immediately he was on him, grinding his knee into Neville's back while using his hand to wrench his head awkwardly. He knew if he kept applying pressure, he'd snap a vertebra. So he kept pulling. The faster he could get this over with, the better.

However, Neville was a clever little thing and Dean felt teeth bite into the soft flesh of his arm and screamed, forcing him to let go. With little time to brace himself, he was face first in the dirt with the arm of his bad shoulder being contorted behind him. Neville was looking to dislocate his shoulder. The sickening pop sound and intense pain meant he'd succeeded. When he let go, Dean’s left arm was now useless unless. 

How'd he know about his bad shoulder? 

He didn't have time to think about it because Neville was on his back, arm wrapped around his throat and squeezing the airflow to his lungs closed. He tried to throw him off, tried to dislodge his arm so he could breathe, but Neville wasn't budging. He needed air, badly. 

He could just let himself be choked out, it'd be easy. Just let Neville kill him and he'd be rid of this hell hole. But he kept on fighting with no real motivation to do so. Call it silly self preservation. So he used the same tactic Neville had used on him and sunk his teeth into the flesh of his forearm. That released the hold and gave him the opening he needed. He kicked him in the groin, let him double over before hooking his arms under Neville shoulders, fighting the pain in his shoulder, and falling backward, letting his head crack into the dirt. 

While he was dazed, bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth, Dean pulled him to his feet by the hair and took a hold of his chin. Looking directly at Helmsley, whose face was the picture of outrage, he twisted quickly. He knew he'd won as soon as he felt the snap of bone under his fingers and let Neville body fall to the dirt. 

The crowd was going wild, but all Dean could see was the small smirk creep into Hunter's face.


	8. Hunter and Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little chapter!
> 
> Again, thanks everyone who left comments and kudos. I sincerely appreciate them! 
> 
> Please read the tags.

Seth paced the cell, hands clasped into his hair tightly. He was nervous, antsy, unable to get Dean out of his head. Why? It wasn't like the lifespan in this place was worth even remotely worrying about the wellbeing of another person. But he did worry. He worried for his safety, his well being. He'd heard stories about people dying in the arena, he'd seen the fights on television. It was a barbaric practice, one that should end. It's not like Dean would be any different than anyone that came before him, or anyone that will come after. But he was special, smart, resilient in a way Seth hadn't imagined. 

What was he supposed to do if Dean died? 

It was only a matter of time before they made him fight and he wasn't sure he'd be able to. 

He was the only person here to show him any shred of kindness. At this point, Dean Ambrose was the closest thing to a friend Seth had. All things considered, he knew that was as true a statement as he would ever think. 

He kicked the wall in frustration. “Fuck!” 

But what could he do? He was locked in his cell until the fights were over. So color him surprised when the door opened and a guard filled the empty space. “You have a visitor.”

A visitor? 

The guard stepped aside and another body filled the space, grinning at him like the snake he was. “Hi Colby.” He said, sneering. “Oh, I forgot, it's Seth now.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Hunter.” 

Hunter Helmsley was an imposing man on a good day, all muscle and brawn, he reminded Seth of a bull just waiting to stampede over everything in his path. So taking a careful step away when Helmsley advanced forward and the door closed behind him was understandable. 

“I thought you should know, Ambrose survived.” He said, hands clasped behind his back in a very practiced, very business like manner that made his chest push forward and the buttons on his navy suit jacket strain. “No thanks to you.”

Seth wasn't sure what to do. Was he supposed to speak? When in the presence of someone as imposing and important as Hunter Hearst Helmsley, it was a fine line that could mean the difference between survival and a horribly slow death. So he stayed silent, preferring to look at him like a deer in headlights. 

Helmsley took another step forward, which Seth countered by taking a step back, then another and another until his back connected with the cell wall. Helmsley just kept advancing until he was standing right in front of him. Seth was beginning to panic, he knew that, he could feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the way his heart hammered out a beat in his ear, the way his hands were now shaking in the fists he had them balled into. 

Nothing fazed the Authority leader watching him with curious interest, just observing like someone would watch an animal at a zoo. 

He wasn't expecting the hand squeezing his throat. 

“We had a deal, _Seth_!” He snarled, face now mere inches away. “Or did you forget?”

It was hard to breathe with those fingers wrapped around his windpipe, even as he clawed at them. “K-killing him...wasn't p-part of the...deal.”

Hunter growled at him. “Do you want to go back to that hole I pulled you from?”

Seth shook his head in panic, eyes wide at the prospect of going back there. Anywhere but there. 

It was another good minute of Helmsley pressing his fingers into his throat before he finally let go. He drew in a powerful breath and coughed it out as his vision cleared. At least he managed to stay on his feet. 

“It’s bad enough that I have to deal with my wife and her infatuation with him, but the people are beginning to rally.” Hunter said, his proximity still way too close for comfort. “They want him to live. He's the hero they want to see succeed. The longer he does that, the more of a chance I have of an uproar if I kill him in the Arena. Do you understand the problem here?”

“I've done what you asked!” he cried. “I think he at least trusts me a little. It wasn't going to be an overnight thing! But killing him?!”

Again Hunter crowded his space and seth backed up so tight against the wall he was shocked he wasn’t absorbed into it. “You find a way to end this run of luck he’s had, get close to him, force him to make a mistake, or you’ll regret ever being born. You’re a good looking man, Seth. Maybe offer him what you offered me.”

It felt like he had been hit in the gut with those words. Helmsley had hit him right where it hurt and knew it if the sick grin that spread across his face was any indication. Seth was desperate then, he had just wanted the pain to stop and would have done anything anyone asked him to. And he did, several times over, until he couldn't walk or sit. What did they care? Someone like him was expendable, easily used, easily thrown away. The only way to survive was to remain useful, and he was failing. 

“Speaking of which,” Hunter cooed and toyed with a piece of Seth's hair. “Having you last night just made me miss how sweet your ass is. It’s been a long day and and I need to let off some steam.”

“Hunter, please.” He could try and plead, hoping that the COO of this fucked up operation - the very same man who held his life in his hand, who had called him to those sex rooms to fuck before the fight today, who had already left him sore - would show mercy. 

It was a long shot. 

The hand was again at his throat, but not squeezing, merely holding his head still as lips attacked his so forcefully he felt the cut already there open and could taste copper in his mouth. He couldn't handle him again, not without passing out. It was too soon and Hunter was too rough. But Seth could feel Helmsley's hardness press against his leg as the large body held him steady against the wall. When he pulled back enough to speak, his eyes were filled with that lustful twinkle that meant Seth had no chance of escaping this. 

“If my wife can have a boy toy prisoner, then so can I.” He whispered in Seths ear before licking at it. “Now, get on your knees and do what I know you can. Don't make me force you.”


	9. Born Survivor

His hands were shaking. 

They always did after a fight, when the adrenaline wore off and he was left with nothing but the memory of bone breaking under his fingertips, of blood trickling down his skin, of the life he had just taken. It didn’t matter who it was, he’d just ended someone existence, released them for their mortal coil, made them bug feed, fertilizer. It was a hard concept to wrap his head around, but he had done it, like a switch had been flipped in his brain and there was nothing but that instinctual need to survive. 

Survive.

He was good at that. 

Dean Ambrose: born survivor.

He didn’t remember being taken to the infirmary, nor did he recall the stitches they gave him thanks to the cut in his eyebrow. He was just numb to everything, all of it, even the breath in his lungs. He did, however, remember them popping his shoulder back into place because that was never an easy process. He wasn’t given any painkillers - not unusual - and it took three guards to hold him steady while the doctor pulled and twisted his arm until the satisfying pop of it sliding back into place was heard over his own screams. A half-assed bandage was wrapped around it and across his chest, and he was sent on his way. 

He had yet to see Roman, even in the infirmary, and he wondered how he’d fared. He was pretty positive that he had been shot at least once, and if the wound was bad enough they would just let him bleed out on the gurney because they were butchers and didn't care about any more than what they could get out of him. He cared about Roman too much, more than he should, especially with the way things were around here. 

He was lead back to the arena prison and to his cell where he sat on his cot in a daze. Too much had happened in the past few hours for him to really feel anything other than the beating of his own heart in his chest and that overwhelming regret that comes with winning. Maybe that's why he didn’t really register Seth picking himself up off the floor and limp to his own cot. 

“Dean?” it was careful, direct, worried, something he hadn’t expected from the man trying to catch his eye. 

But he didn't want to talk right now, he didn’t want to move or breathe or _exist_. All he wanted was to forget the last few hours and curled himself onto his cot, his back to his cellmate, and closed his eyes. 

“Dean? Are you okay?”

The chuckle escaped his lips before he could stop it. Okay? _Okay_?! No, he was so far from okay that the very idea of breathing is something he had to wrap his head around. “Don’t talk to me, Seth.”

He heard the sigh, but Seth thankfully didn't push him. However, the heavy shift of his cot and the arm that wrapped around his shoulder did surprise him. He almost pushed Seth off. Almost. Yet, he found himself curling further into the strong chest at his back, wrapping his own arms around his chest, and letting go. 

He’d never cried after a fight. Never once. But here he was, sobbing into his pillow while Seth held him, cooing soothing words into his ear over and over. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, sniffed his question after several minutes of letting himself be comforted. 

He felt Seth shrug at his back. “You’re human, Dean, not a robot. You just killed a man. You’re allowed to be comforted.”

“I think Hunter wants me dead.” he says without even thinking about the words as they left his mouth, something he should have definitely done because Seth stiffened at his back. Before he knew it, the words were stumbling out of his mouth like a dangerous tidal wave that could not be stopped. He knew damn well he shouldn’t be sharing things like this with Seth, he shouldn't be sharing things like this with _anyone_. Things like this were dangerous in the wrong hands, information was dangerous. He told him about Hunters visit to the Arena cell, about Neville, about what he’d said and done, about the sick grin on the COO’s face when he’d finally snapped his opponent's neck. “I’m too popular. That makes me a threat.”

“Good.” Seth says, an edge to his voice like he’d never heard in the young man and Dean turned in the cot to face him, to study his face in the dark of their cell. It’s twisted into something he couldn’t quite place. Anger? Regret? Desperation? He didn’t know, but wanted to. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to know what made someone look like that. He’d only see that look from those so desperate to be free that they would do anything to get there. 

“Did something happen?” he asks before he catches himself. 

Seth shook his head and offered an appeasing, reassuring smile. “No.”

There was something in his tone that was most definitely a lie, but Dean let it slide. He was too tired, to emotionally drained to push the matter. He let himself huddle deeper into himself and into Seth's chest before drifting off to an uneasy sleep. In the morning, when everything was back to normal, he’d forget this ever happened.

He’d forget.  
But he didn’t forget that following morning. No, he woke up still cuddled into Seth and he shouldn’t be, despite how good it felt to be held. He pulled himself free from his arms and winced as he felt every bone in his body protest even that small movement. The doors opened shortly after and, with one last look at the man still sleeping on his cot like a fool, he made his way to the mess hall to fight the decidedly smaller numbers for breakfast. Even with the smaller numbers, there seemed to be less food to even fight for in the first place, which was strange. All he managed to score was a bowl of what he thought was oatmeal, but was way too salty to be anything close.

He sat himself in the corner and stared at his meager helping, watching the steam lift off of it and disappear into the air. He knew he should eat, but he just had too much on his mind to even think about bringing that spoon to his mouth. The fight, the Arena, the way Hunter looked at him, the things that happened, Seth...all weighed heavily on his shoulders and he quickly found himself lost in thought.

“You look like death, Ambrose.” 

He looked up, startled and ready to quip back at the familiar voice out of habit, but a sigh of relief hit him before he could say anything. Roman was grinning down at him like he always did before he gingerly slid into the seat across from Dean. “You son of a bitch. I thought you were dead.”

“Nah,” Roman said, grin quirking just a little higher even through the sadness and pain in his eyes. “They’ll have to try harder than Sheamus to kill my ass. Shot me in the leg, barely a scrape, but enough for them to have to dig some shrapnel out of my thigh. Butchers. What about you?”

“Dislocated shoulder, a few stitches.”

Roman grimaced, knowing just what the doctors had done the last time he’d dislocated his shoulder. “You alright?”

Dean nodded, but didn't really feel it. 

“Ambrose.” his name was called from across the mess hall. “You’re summoned.”

A heavy sigh and a tired look from Roman was only matched by the completely dislocated look from Dean. She couldn't even let him recover, could she? What could he do? He pulled himself up and tried to mentally get his mind in order. He’d have to if he wanted to keep her happy, keep her ear. 

“Good luck, man.” Roman said to him and he nodded back. 

Luck was definitely something he didn't have.


	10. Expendable

What was Seth supposed to do? Hunter wasn't playing around and he still had the bruises on his hips to prove it. Dean Ambrose had to go. That was the deal, that's what made the pain stop. Despite what was done to him now, nothing compared to that. He'd spend a lifetime in the Arena before he would dare risk going back there.

The Pit. 

The place where Hunter found his minions because after enough torture people would agree to anything, absolutely _anything_ , to make it stop. And Seth agreed to do this, to get close to the man they dubbed the Lunatic Fringe, and take him out from the inside. It should have been easy, but now his brain was all muddled over him, a constant litany of ‘Hunter is the real enemy’ and ‘I can't do this’. 

But he would. 

He would because he'd rather do this than go back to the Pit. His feelings about Dean didn't matter. What mattered was staying the fuck out of _that place_. 

He needed a strategy, a game plan, something to make this as painless as possible because he really didn't want to hurt Dean personally. He'd gotten too close. That was his problem. He'd gotten far too close to him in the short time he's known him. It felt good to hold him, it felt good to have that strong man pressed up against his chest, it felt good to be needed other than for sex or an asinine vendetta mission. But it couldn't go any further. It had to stop here. 

So he watched, and waited, and learned. 

Roman Reigns might be the key. He saw the way relief washed across Dean's face when the large Samoan sat down with him at breakfast. Roman was a friend, or as close to one as he could be, and he and Dean had a bond, whatever that may be. But how was he supposed to turn Roman against Ambrose? The only way he could think was to get them in the Arena together, one would have to kill the other. If Dean won, he'd have killed his only friend in this shithole and it would be easier for Seth to worm his way into that spot and manipulate him. But if Roman won, the problem would sort itself out and Hunter would let him go, like he promised. 

When Dean was summoned, Seth took the opportunity to talk to Roman for the first time. He slid into Dean's chair, placing down his empty tray because he'd been stupid enough to sleep to late. Again. He didn't look at Roman, a calculated ploy to get him to speak first. It worked.

“What are you doing?” He asks and Seth looks up at him. 

“I'm sorry. I saw Dean get up and assumed…”

Roman snorted a laugh, definitely not friendly. “You assumed wrong. Leave.”

“I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He says, offering an apologetic smile in an effort to at least get Roman to continue talking to him. “I'm Se-”

“I know who you are.” He interrupted. “Doesn't change the fact that I don't want you sitting there.”

“So you'd rather sit alone?”

“Yes.”

“What about Dean?”

Roman shrugged. “What about him?” 

“He was sitting here.”

“He's different.”

“Why?” Seth asks and the look on Roman's face is like Seth had just insulted his entire ancestry with that one word. He supposed that Dean and Roman shared a common hardship, a commonality that was surviving more than one fight in the Arena. 

“I trust him, unlike a scrub.” he snarled. “Besides, you haven't even fought. What do you know?”

Seth sighed. “Is that what it takes to get any respect around here? Fight?”

Roman didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. 

“Fine.” 

He set his jaw, pushed aside his tray, and stalked over to where Kevin was bragging about how he’d won his third Arena fight with some of his lackeys. This was a risky move, seth knew that, but if he was going to gain respect from Roman, and a trust he was going to need, then he’d spend the time in the hole. But maybe he’d gotten somewhere with Roman, because when he looked back, the Samoan was sitting back with his arms crossed and watching intently to see this play out, a small little grin of amusement on his face. 

This was going to suck.

One of Kevin's lackeys saw him first and nodded in Seths direction. Kevin turned around with a stupid grin on his face and Seth didn't even wait for whatever egotistical bullshit might come spilling out of his mouth, he just shot out his fist and punched him in it. In all honesty, it felt really good to take that shot at Kevin, and he totally expected him to retaliate, which he did by driving his shoulder into Seth's ribs and sending the both of them crashing through a table. 

Guards were on them before either one of them could do much else, even if Kevin was kicking and screaming that he'd pay for that. It didn't matter, because when he looked back at Roman that amused grin has morphed into a chuckle as he shook his head. Maybe Seth had made an impression, maybe not, but he'd definitely accomplished one thing. Roman wouldn't forget him. 

\---

He did want to please Stephanie, it was imperative for his own safety that he did, but his mind definitely wasn't in the game. More than once she looked more bored than excited as he moved on top of her. 

“Ambrose, are you even trying?” 

He continued to thrust into her, hoping to make up for it somehow. He just needed to get her there, just needed to make her come, and it would be over. It took him reaching his hand between them to rub at her to even get her remotely excited again. In the end, oral and a sloppy handjob is what did the trick for both of them. 

She was not happy when she started dressing. “What the hell was that?” 

He buttoned his jeans, refusing to look her in her obviously frustrated face. “I'm still tired from yesterday.”

“That's never been a problem before.” 

“I'm sorry, Stephanie.” He said, and oddly enough did mean it. “It won't happen again.”

“Make sure it doesn't.” She says and smoothed out her shirt. “I'd hate to have to replace you.”

He nodded and left the room to follow the guard back into the prison proper. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had fucked it up, that her threat was very, very real. But it was over. 

He walked in just as they were carting Seth out in handcuffs with Owens not far behind, screaming at each other. When he reached a very amused Roman, all he had to do was look at him and he explained. “Your cellmate is nuts.”

“What the hell happened?”

Roman explained the interaction and Dean found himself chuckling right along with him. Looks like the scrub had finally had enough of being pushed around and picked the biggest dog in the yard to poke with a stick. Not that Dean could blame him, he'd done the exact same thing when he first got here. 

Seth Rollins had just moved up a few notches on the list of people he could stand in this place. Two times in the hole in as many weeks? Either he had a set of brass ones or he was a fucking nutcase. It's funny how the line between the two was blurred. 

“How'd it go with Stephanie?” Roman asked, an innocent question. Probably digging for any info Dean may have fucked out of her. 

Any amusement he'd felt before was suddenly dwindling and he found himself looking away. “Not good. To much bullshit to really get it up.”

“Uh oh.”

His feelings exactly. “She threatened to replace me.”

It was brief, but a small flash of hope passed over Roman's face. Dean didn't really blame him, anyone would kill for his spot. 

“I'm sorry, man.” Roman said and clapped Dean reassuringly on the shoulder. “She really didn't give you any time to recover this go around.”

That was the truth, she didn't, but that's not the problem. If he was replaced, his reputation would be forfeit, any sway he had would be gone, any advantage decimated just because he couldn't continue to please her. _He_ was expendable, and he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by a scene in Showtime's Spartacus. 
> 
> Which I watch for purely educational purposes *cough*


End file.
